


Out of Control

by Slayer87



Series: My Old Fanfic Eng [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Loss of Control, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Overthinking, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23051014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slayer87/pseuds/Slayer87
Summary: The rest of them had emotions, feelings ... he was just a highly functional sociopath who could never stop thinking. Never. There had never been a single moment in his life when he could say he was not lucid and in full possession of the mental faculties.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: My Old Fanfic Eng [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654111
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	Out of Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2012  
> Enjoy!

  
Sherlock knew every nuance of emotion that the human race could produce, and he knew how to recognize it in others better than anyone else, but when he was applied to him compared to those around them, things changed.  
He didn't remember ever trusting anyone or ever wanting anyone close.  
He knew words like intimacy and feeling only as notions that were used by his brain to infer facts and expose culprits. They were part of the things he needed to know in order to do his job, but like so many other things they had never been related to him.  
He had never felt the desire to deepen his knowledge in these subjects.  
The rest of them had emotions, feelings ... he was just a highly functional sociopath who could never stop thinking. Never. There had never been a single moment in his life when he could say he was not lucid and in full possession of the mental faculties. He had always avoided anything that could alter his mental state.  
  
Drugs and alcohol in the beginning. And after that, sex.  
  
And if the first two were controllable, once well studied, the other was only inconceivable.  
Too many distractions, too many stimuli and above all no control.  
The mere idea of not having control it made him less focused than usual, and since he had learned this he had always been careful to put himself in a position that he never even had to be tempted by a lack of control.  
  
His mind, always at work, was enough to tempt him.  
Occasionally he felt these glimmers of awareness emerge - _What if I let myself go? What would it be like to stop thinking?_ \- but he suffocated them immediately.  
First of all, nobody would have wanted to approach him in that way - not after meeting him - and then he would never have trusted him. Giving another human being, imperfect and incapable, the possibility of hurting him, of approaching him up to that point was simply not tolerable.  
  
All this ... all this up to John.  
  
When he chose to have a roommate he didn't expect ... John Watson.  
Had the first few days been almost a dream? Of course, he had analyzed every word of John, obtained data from all possible parts, he had thirteen ideas on him that he had attacked from every single side, yet it was John himself, albeit unconsciously, who broke his thirteen ideas after a few weeks, and Sherlock had decided it was worth living with that Doctor a little more, just because he never left an open challenge, and John Watson was a challenge for him, at least in the beginning.  
  
How they went from that to the conversations on the couch was a challenge in the challenge.  
Conversations ... John did not speak much, more than anything else left him to reason on the cases, intervening from time to time with a comment absolutely out of place, or with insights that are not better justified that are of no use, if not, sometimes, to give him a new perspective on the problem. From being a challenge, John had become useful.  
Nobody had ever been useful to him. He had always been useful to others ...  
  
When there were no cases to deal with, John was good at removing him from boredom.  
He was always a human being, a normal one moreover, but he put his effort into it and really tried to keep up with him. It was admirable.  
  
When Sherlock realized he was admiring John, he was perplexed by himself. He had decided to include that in the "John" puzzle, as he called it, and was also studying himself.  
  
That was the first clue.  
You would never study yourself, you would never be objective.  
  
Time passed.  
Once, speaking of a case, the discourse of phobias had come up.  
John asked him which was his if he ever had one.  
Even astonishing he had replied, moreover sincerely.  
  
That was the second clue.  
Unscheduled reactions.  
  
The Enlightenment - the moment when he understood the challenge that John Watson posed took place a few days later. Looking back, he was amazed at how quickly things had come together.  
  
They had just escaped a shootout.  
They were in Sherlock's bedroom and were wiping away the dirt.  
They were laughing, as had happened in one of their first encounters, when John lost his balance, falling backwards while trying to unfasten a shoe without having a base. Sherlock's natural reaction had been to help him, only to follow the other forward, since it was too late to stop the fall.  
They ended up on top of each other, on the bed.  
  
That was the third and final clue.  
Loss of control.

They looked at each other in the eyes. And then it was as if another person had taken possession of Sherlock.  
It was another person who took off his clothes and took them off from John. It was another person who kissed and let himself be kissed. It was no longer him. He was having difficulty breathing. He wanted to stop. He never wanted to stop.  
  
There was a part of his brain that was continuing to analyze everything, and as pleasant as John's hand on him was, and the mouth - that mouth was simply wonderful - did not stop performing miracles, attacking his self-control, while this continued resisting and resisting...  
  
Then there was a moment.  
Light.  
  
He was afraid of losing control.  
He lost it.  
A single moment of darkness in which Sherlock's brain died.  
It really went out. No thoughts. No deductions. Nothing.  
Only body, pleasure and John, inside and out.  
It lasted a nanosecond, perhaps even less.  
But his brain had gone, and even if the next moment he was already analyzing how and why this had happened, it was possible to not think for him.  
  
But above all, he had entrusted himself to another.  
He had let himself go, had become vulnerable, more vulnerable than he had ever been and had not been hurt by it.  
John, his roommate, the person he admired, had made him lose control and lost his with him.  
He was afraid of trusting.  
He trusted.

The End


End file.
